


but i've got a plan

by thememoriesfire



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:17:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For anon, who wanted "Brittany comforts Quinn on her fat day" and got a Season 1 AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but i've got a plan

She doesn’t feel like Lucy anymore. 

Much.

It’s only been two years, but in those two years she’s rocketed up to the top of the McKinley social pyramid so quickly that it’s been vertigo-inducing.  Girls like Santana, who would’ve thrown her lunch in her face two years ago, now ape everything she does; hell, she still can’t believe that Santana (who is screwing Puck in so many obvious ways that it’s almost depressing) actually joined the celibacy club for her, but she’s not going to complain.

It’s  _good_  being Quinn Fabray.  She’s popular, and her boyfriend is handsome, even if she wishes he was easier to talk to about… well, anything other than video games and football.  She’s getting excellent grades and she has… friends.  Sort of. She’s not  _alone_  anymore, is the basic point of it, and that was everything that Lucy was.

Quinn  _makes_  miserable little girls these days.  And if that makes her a bad person, she’ll take it.  She’s earned a few years of being ruthless, by her own count.

*

Brittany is an enigma. 

Santana would strangle any other Cheerio for hanging out with Becky Jackson, but Brittany somehow just does it.  Quinn watches them talk together over lunch, assessing what looks like math homework but probably isn’t (math homework isn’t usually covered in rainbows), and then glances at Santana.

“How did you two ever end up best friends?” she asks.

That, too, is a generous lapse of description, because ‘best friends’ in the traditional sense of the word don’t usually end up necking as soon as a wine cooler surfaces near them.  Or, hell, when it  _doesn’t_.

Santana finishes chewing a celery stick and swallows it quickly before shrugging.  “It’s just always been me and her.  We met in kindy; Dave Karofsky called her stupid, and I slugged him.”

It’s weirdly romantic, except for the part where Santana feels the need to sleep with other people just because it’ll help protect her status.

Quinn  _gets it_ , she does—but seeing someone else do it just puts into sharp relief how stupid all of this is.

Across the room, Rachel is cornering Finn—and she fumes internally, because how exactly does her  _giant boyfriend_  get cornered by that dwarf at all—and babbling excitedly about something ludicrous like a musical theater competition or Avatar on Ice or what have you.  And Finn’s dopily staring at her with all the adoration in the world.

The salad in front of her is so bitter that she actually discreetly spits the one bite of it she’s had out in her napkin, and then bins the entire thing before stalking right past Finn and Rachel and out into the hallway.

They don’t even  _notice_  her.

It’s one of those days where she can’t even see the reconstructive surgery on her face for all the crap running through her mind.  Paramount is the idea that somehow, Rachel Berry is still twice the person she’ll ever be.

Which is ridiculous.  Obviously.

She takes a deep breath, straightens her shoulders and sticks her chin up in the air.  She’s Quinn now.  Santana Lopez is under her thumb, much like the rest of the school, and—the fact that the only people she knows who actually get to do what they  _want_  to are Rachel Berry and Brittany Pierce is just something that she’s not going to think about anymore.

*

Finn is a moron.

He doesn’t see how Rachel is playing him, and goes along with it.  She _opts_  to think that he’s just too stupid to realize it, because the alternative is that he gets it and he just doesn’t care.

Rachel saunters through the school with a picnic basket, and Quinn feels something in her mind almost snap with resentment.  She’s so  _obvious_.  It’s like she doesn’t even care that she gets Slushied every day (and twice a day, lately), or that the amount of bitchy art about her in the bathroom has tripled in the last few weeks.  She hasn’t even turned off comments on MySpace, for God’s sake, and the really sad thing about all of this is that all of Quinn’s actions are just meant to be  _deterring_ , not actually— _hurtful_.

She knows that they are, but there’s also the part of her that reminds her that she’ll step off Rachel as soon as Rachel steps off her property, and so this isn’t like what happened to Lucy, at all.  Rachel has a lab partner, after all.

The problem is that when she’s staring at Rachel’s back, watching her head towards the auditorium with a bounce in her step, she doesn’t even really have the  _energy_  to try to do something else to destroy her.

Three thousand dollars of surgery and a nearly lethal diet made Quinn Fabray; and all it takes is one moment of watching someone just not  _care_ about any of that to wonder what it was all good for.

*

She doesn’t  _mean_  to throw up lunch, but after a year of throwing up everything just to feel better about how her own father looked at her—

—it’s old hat.

She used to be more careful, though, and what she’s not expecting is Brittany fixing her hair in front of the sinks when she gets out.

“Did you have the mystery meat?” Britt asks.

It feels like a reprieve, but Quinn suspects it’s a genuine question. “No, I just—didn’t feel good.”

Brittany glances at her in the mirror in that weirdly perceptive way she does, sometimes.  “Stomach or like… heart?”

Quinn smiles faintly and says, “I’m fine now, Britt.  It doesn’t matter.”

“‘course it does.  You’re our captain,” Brittany says, and the way she says captain makes it sound like she means something a little more than that.  But—Quinn doesn’t bother reading into it.  Brittany goes with Santana, in the same way that Rachel apparently goes with Finn.

“I won’t throw up on anyone during practice today; I promise,” she says, with a small smile, before rifling through her make up bag for her toothpaste and toothbrush.

“Oh, you’d get everyone.  You know.  Because you’re at the top,” Brittany says, making a face.  “That’s really gross.”

Quinn laughs unexpectedly.  “Yeah.  It is.”

“You don’t laugh enough,” Brittany tells her,and seconds later an arm is slung around her back and she’s squeezed into an unexpected hug that has every muscle in her body freeze.  “You should, because you’re so pretty when you do.  Even Finn has to see that.”

Brittany skips out of the bathroom a second later, and Quinn’s stuck staring at herself in the mirror, foamy toothbrush in hand.  

 _That_  meant something, and—hey, why not.  She’s tried everything else to keep him in line, including promises of sex that she’s not anywhere near ready to make.  (Being Quinn Fabray in Quinn Fabray’s clothing is one thing, but not feeling like Lucy when it all comes off?  That’s going to take a lot more time.)

Maybe the trick is just to fake being happy.  Maybe faking it will make it actually happen.

*

There is almost a ludicrous amount of effort involved in being the girlfriend she should be, for him.  Ideally, he’d take charge of their date night, but unless she wants to spend an evening becoming intimately acquainted with the online co-op of Killzone 2, she knows that she better take charge.

Her parents are off at a Republican fundraiser of some kind, and she’s set the table and spent two and a half hours cooking a roast dinner for him.  On the table, it looks like something from a magazine—much like everything else in their house does.  She’s still wearing the apron, and all she can think of is that her mother would be  _so proud_  of her right now.

Finn, meanwhile, looks like he’s going to throw up.  He won’t stop looking over his shoulder at the hallway, covered in pictures of Alison winning trophies, like he’s worried that her parents are going to show up and shoot him.  Maybe that’s a legitimate concern, but she’s lit  _candles_  for them, for God’s sake, and is set to talk to him about the football season—God, she even spent twenty minutes googling the rules as a refresher just to make sure she could keep him talking to her (and thinking  _about her_ ) for more than ten minutes at a time.

By the time she’s served him, he’s looking so guilty that the, “What?” snaps out of her without permission.

“I kissed Rachel,” he says, and stares at the tablecloth.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean—”

“I know. I know you didn’t,” she says, even though every part of her is screaming to kick him out, but—it’s not how she was raised.  When a difficult situation presents itself, one looks for the most logical compromise, which in this case is forgiveness with a promise that it won’t happen again.  “She’s—difficult to avoid, when she wants something.  Isn’t she?”

He nods, grateful, and then says, “It wasn’t even—I felt horrible.  I mean, she’s a good kisser but—”

“You’re with me,” she says, as if saying it out loud will make it true.

“Yeah, I mean. I love you,” he says.  Except it comes out more like a question. “And you’ve made this dinner and it’s—a little creepy but I mean, I appreciate it.”

She focuses on the parts of that sentence that she wants to hear, because God almighty, their homecoming pictures next year are going to be _gorgeous_ , and that’s—that’s what she needs.  Just a few more pictures of _her_  in the house, to rival the encyclopedia of Alison that is plastered everywhere in the Fabray Family Museum.

“We don’t want it to get cold,” she says, and rifles through her memories for a good opening question about what is going on in the NFL right now.

*

She absolutely does  _not_  cry herself to sleep later that night, but she’ll concede that she wakes up at around 3am and goes on Facebook just to have someone else’s drama to worry about for a bit.

Santana’s status just reads  _no, I’m not fucking you just because you gave me ten dollars in gas money!_ , which almost makes her laugh.  Puck really needs to get his truck fixed, by the sound of it.

Finn’s is some innocuous blather about the team, as always, and Puck’s is a lewd comment about an actress who sort of looks like Rachel, which—

Jesus, why does  _everyone_  want her?  

She clicks to her own profile and stares at the picture there; it’s from her first professional post-Lucy shoot, and everything about it is perfect.  Really: just  _perfect_.

So why isn’t it good enough?

Facebook Chat pops up out of nowhere, and Quinn startles at the sound of the beep before shutting off her laptop speakers; not that her parents would actually come to check on her, but she’d like to avoid the questions anyway.  Sleepless nights and crying—that kind of thing belonged to Lucy, and she’s better now.  Everyone believes  _that_ much, at least.

 _santana says that if u dont sleep enugh a gargoil will eat ur first baby_

Quinn doesn’t even know where to start, and another wave of tears wells up in her eyes because she’s smothering laughter in her hand.

 _I don’t think that’s factually accurate, Britt.  Why are you awake?_

There’s no response forthcoming for a while and then finally:

 _englsh essay.  need a C- to nt fall this year_

It’s weird, really.  To realize that other people have problems that actually fucking  _matter_ , and not stupid obsessions over boyfriends who want to be with other people and, in all likelihood, she won’t even remember five years from now.  It’s  _weird_ , and it makes her feel crappy all over again.

The good Samaritan handbook is fairly clear on how to alleviate this kind of guilt, and the next message is the first comfortable thing she’s said to anyone in ages.

 _You want me to take a look at it?_

Brittany just sends back two smiley faces and an x, and five minutes later, Quinn has an essay that—God.  If she hadn’t seen Brittany dance, or play tennis, or cheer, she’d actually be thinking something incredibly snide right now, but all she’s left wondering is if maybe Brittany just has some sort of _massive_  undiagnosed learning disability and everyone’s just fine with keeping her that way.  (It’s mean, really, to wonder if Santana would still be so trigger-happy about their best friendship if she wasn’t clearly the brains of the operation; but that doesn’t make it a less valid thing to question, to Quinn’s mind.)

There’s a fine line between rewriting the thing to Quinn’s standards and just making sure that that C- that Brittany needs is a go, and—

 _Why isn’t Santana helping you?_

It’s not exactly a secret how Brittany got through freshman year, and Quinn moves a few more comma’s around and takes out one duck analogy too many before the chime alerts to another response.

 _tld her i lved her and now shs with puck_

Quinn blinks at that, a few times, and wonders what an appropriate response would be.  Is she supposed to know about this?  Is  _anyone_?

She doesn’t even trust herself to not—use this somehow, so the idea that Brittany just put it out there for her to deal with is like a double whammy of guilt she doesn’t need.

 _She doesn’t deserve you_ , she finally sends back, alongside an email with a corrected essay that, if she’s right, should earn Brittany at least a C+.

There’s not much more she can do.

*

Finn hovers like some sort of annoying, buzzing fly after that.

If she thought that Rachel pursuing him was fucking annoying, Rachel _pining_  after him from across the choir room is like a whole ‘nother level of testing the outer limits of her patience.

Of course, there are other things for her to focus on today; Finn’s clammy hand in hers, for a change.  Santana’s sulking and staring daggers into the floor even as Puck looks ridiculously self-satisfied about something.  Brittany’s in the back with Mike and Tina, studiously not looking at where Santana’s filing her nails near the front.

It’s all so ridiculously dramatic that she  _almost_  laughs, except—this is her life, too, and they’re the only friends she has.

“You’re an  _idiot_ ,” she hisses at Santana, right before Cheerios practice, and then makes her run thirty suicides just for the hell of it.

Brittany sort of smiles at her, and then heads off with Amy and Lauren to go and practice a set of flips that’s so complicated that Quinn loses track of their name after the second “double double”.

If they win Nationals, it won’t be because of her leadership, but—that doesn’t really matter that much when the trophy speaks for itself.

*

Thursday practice is always the worst; they get a light run on Friday in preparation for games, but Thursday is when Coach S. really pushes their buttons in every possible way.

Last night was another Lucy night of tossing and turning and feeling gross in every possible way, and Quinn’s exhausted; the fact that Santana mutely handed over some concealer in the girl’s bathroom earlier today just about says it all.  Her feet are sluggish and she has about as much cheer as Tina Cohen-Chang does, which—

“Q, get your  _fat ass_ around that track before I step off these bleachers and kick it for you,” Coach yells at her.  There’s some added comments about how they all look like brain-addled garden gnomes and—Coach S. should meet Rachel Berry some time, Quinn thinks, before laughing weakly and nearly tripping over her own feet.

“Shit, Quinn, you’re going to get us all held back,” Santana snaps at her, almost tripping alongside her. Brittany, gracious and light on her feet like a gazelle, is a good twenty feet in front of them leading the pack.  That in and of itself is going to get her reamed out, she knows, but the fact that she just cannot get her body to pick up the pace—and can’t stop thinking about Rachel singing a fucking  _love song_  to Finn earlier today, in front of _everybody_ —is what’s really going to get her in trouble.

“Leave me,” she bursts out, while she still can, and Santana shoots her a disbelieving look before also picking up the pace.

Her body literally gives out about ten steps later, and she crashes to her knees.

Coach Sylvester is lazy, and prefers to yell from afar, but this is one of those times where she apparently feels that a more personal approach will really drive home some points.  Quinn doesn’t even see her appear until her head’s tugged back by her ponytail, and then the insults come rolling.  Most of them just wash over her in a daze—her vision’s basically all black with some light spots for at least thirty seconds—but what sinks in is that Coach _knows_.

She knows about Lucy.  And that’s who she’s talking to right now.  Fat, useless, friendless, pathetic and ugly Lucy, who shouldn’t be a Cheerio at all, let alone a head cheerleader, and “how are we going to ever win anything if your lazy, worthless and  _still_  oversized behind is the one that they’re all meant to be following”.

Quinn Fabray does not cry, and she scrambles to her feet as soon as her ponytail is released.

“Out of my sight, Q.  You’re cleaning the locker room as soon as you’re done passing out like an anemic baby, and Santana is replacing you as captain immediately,” Coach finally says, with a look so dismissive that …

Nobody’s ever looked at her like that except for her father.

Her legs are like sludge when she heads back to the locker room, and by the time she reaches it, she already knows that she  _is_  going to throw up and she’s  _not_  going to cry.

It would be great if she had a boyfriend she could talk to and who knew how to make her feel even three percent better right now, but instead she has Finn, who would at best manage a “you’re pretty and stuff” while staring over her head at Rachel Berry’s legs in those whorish skirts she wears.

It’s oddly familiar, being in a locker room by herself.  Except this time she’s not hiding, and this isn’t where she has lunch every day, and she can actually see all of her body in the slimline mirrors hanging from the wall behind her locker.  

A lot has changed, but when she catches sight of her eyes, it hits home pretty hard that “a lot” might not be enough.

*

Brittany finds her, sitting out on the front steps, rubbing some lotion into her hands.  Their skin is cracking, because the Cheerios locker room isn’t cleaned with any sort of normal cleaning products; those don’t come with warnings that they may blind small rodents if ingested, Quinn’s fairly sure.

Britt’s presence is wordless and comfortable for a long moment, and somehow, Brittany isn’t stupid enough to try to hug her.

Instead, she rifles through her bag after a moment and pulls out that English paper.

The C+ is accompanied by a  _well done_ , and Brittany smiles at her a little and says, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I couldn’t help it.  I’m smart,” Quinn says, because that feels  _less_ condescending than saying  _I just wanted you to have a decent grade for once_.

“You are.  And that’s why I don’t get why you don’t just break up with Finn,” Brittany says, before picking at her socks and pulling them up a little bit higher.  “Like.  He makes you unhappy.  And when people make you unhappy you shouldn’t be with them.  That’s simple.”

“Is it?” Quinn asks, quietly.

“I love Santana, but she makes me want to get like five more cats, because just snuggling Lord Tubbington when she’s being stupid isn’t even enough.  And—that sucks,” Brittany says, before sighing.  “Also, what Coach said today was stupid.”

“What—”

“You’re not  _fat_ ,” Brittany says, with a quick glance at Quinn’s legs.  “You’re like—Bambi.”

“A deer,” Quinn clarifies.

“No, no, but—today your legs were just all over the place.  Like Bambi on ice,” Brittany says.  “She was making it sound like you were Dumbo but you’re not.  You’re Bambi.”

It’s one of the weirdest, sweetest things anyone’s ever said to her, and before Quinn can stop herself, she says, “It’s not about Finn.”

“I like Finn; we have history together and he always says really funny things about like, the ancient Egyptians, but—if he wants to be with Rachel he should just be with her,” Brittany states firmly.  “Because there are other people who want to be with you—”

Quinn laughs wetly.  “Yeah, I’m sure. Because I’m so much fun to be around.  You know he actually told me that?  That he loved me, but Rachel was  _fun_?”

“Rachel  _is_  fun,” Brittany says.  “She’s crazy.  Crazy people are always fun.”

“Well, I can’t compete with that,” Quinn says.

Brittany’s arm brushes past her back and settles somewhere behind her, and Brittany leans back and just makes a small noise of disapproval.  “You _could_  be fun.  But you have to stop being so worried about what people think.”

“Easier said than done, Britt,” Quinn says, and runs a hand through her hair.   She’s so many shades of imperfect right now that screwing with her perfect French braid is like the least of her problems.

“We should go bowling,” Brittany says.  “Just you and me.  And then… I’ll play really badly as long as you keep telling jokes.  It’ll be fun and you might win, but probably not, because I don’t think you know that many jokes and I’m  _really_  hand-eye coordinated.”

Quinn laughs unwillingly; it sounds less like torture coming from her chest this time. “Finn’s been asking me to go bowling with him for almost three months now.”

“Yeah, but—you wouldn’t have fun with him anyway.  Trust me.  We can eat junk food and make fun of Santana for saying she’s from the ghetto,” Brittany says, leaning forward again and bumping their shoulders together.

Quinn smiles.  “Thanks.”

“For what?”

 _For saying I’m not fat, mostly_.  “Just—thanks.”

“It’s okay.  You’re going to have to help me with my English homework for the rest of the year now or they’ll figure out I cheated,” Brittany says, lightly.  “So, I guess we’re stuck with each other.”

There’s worse places to be stuck.

*

Every part of her social training informs her that she should  _not_  break up with Finn Hudson.

But then there’s a Facebook message from Brittany saying,  _jst do iiiit (source: nike.)  they make lts of monney so i htink they knw what their doing_

Quinn doesn’t try to argue that logic.

*

It takes her another two weeks to man up enough to actually  _do_ it, though; and when she does, it’s an immediate spectacle.

The absolute best part is when Finn goes, “Is this because I made out with Rachel that one time?”

Rachel is _of course_  watching it go down, and gasps somewhere in the audience, and the more murderous part of Quinn (or rather, Lucy) turns around almost instantly with a severe urge to strangle her.

The point is: it’s not really.  “No.  It’s because you make me feel  _fat_.”

She’s pretty sure that that’s a little too much of her issues on display right there, and Finn’s confusion echoes throughout the entire crowd that’s come to watch them break up, and then Brittany bursts through the throng of people and loops her arm through Quinn’s and says, “Seriously Finn, I mean, you’re my friend, but can’t you just tell her she’s pretty sometimes?  I mean Quinn, not Rachel, because you tell Rachel all the time. And Rachel, I know you need to hear it too because your nose is like, way too big for your face, which is fine, I mean, dolphins suffer from the same problem.  Anyway, you’d be prettier if you didn’t try to steal other people’s boyfriends.  And someone tell Santana Lopez that she sucks for not being here.  We’re leaving now.”

Quinn just glares at Rachel one last time and then lets Brittany usher her towards the bleachers, where Quinn starts shaking almost immediately and Brittany ducks her head to look at her with concern.

Quinn clamps her lips together and then bursts out laughing.  “That was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to Rachel.”

“Okay, you do  _remember_  Santana, right?  Even though we’re not talking to her,” Brittany says, with a serious face.  “Because if you don’t remember her I have to check for a concussion and like, Quinn, seriously.  I don’t even know who’s president, so how would I ever know if you know?”

Quinn’s not much for physical affection, but there doesn’t seem to be any choice other than to hug Brittany, who—gives a good hug, as it turns out.  It’s lingering and sweet and undemanding, and  _nice_.

“Dolphins suffer from the same problem,” Quinn mutters, and starts laughing again.

“I’m not very  _good_  at being mean but come on.  Her nose is huge,” Brittany says, sounding a little guilty.

Quinn wipes at her eyes before pulling back and then—yeah.  Maybe it’s time to take a chance on someone else.  “Mine used to be bigger.”

“Did you trade with a dolphin?”

“Did I—what?  No,” Quinn says, and even though this is mortifying and she doesn’t know  _why_  she’s feeling like she has to speak up about this, she’s also smiling.  “I—I used to be fat and ugly.  And then I got a nose job and went on a diet and took up cheerleading, and—”

“Quinn,” Brittany says, a little sternly.  “You might have been fat, and okay, I’m trying to picture you with Rachel’s nose now and it’s just weird.  But you were never  _ugly_.  Ugly people don’t—like, help their dumb friends get good grades in English, okay?”

“That’s—inner beauty.  I meant the other kind,” Quinn says, and now her voice is all rough with tears and Brittany’s biting her lip.

“They’re  _so_ the same thing, though.  It’s like how a butterfly turns into a cocoon or whatever.  Just because one of them has wings and the other doesn’t, that doesn’t make them any different.”

Some more laughter chokes out and then Quinn just sighs and shakes her head.  “The world doesn’t work that way.”

“It does if you make it,” Brittany says, with a shrug, and then runs the back of her hand underneath Quinn’s eyes.  “I  _seriously_ can’t picture you with a giant nose though.  Do you have pictures?”

It’s the plain, unembarrassed curiosity that somehow makes Quinn feel like she can actually talk about this.  “Um.  One or two.  I … burned a lot of them.”

“Okay.  Well, I’ll come over tonight and then we can look at them, and I’ll bring my fake mustache collection and we’ll have a tea party.”

It is  _so_ hard to stay upset in the face of this much nonsense, and Quinn finds that she’s smiling without meaning to.  “While wearing mustaches?”

“Duh, it has to be like, you know.  What’s that word?  Autho…auth…”

“Authentic?”

“Yeah.  That.  Because like, I watched this movie about World War II the other day and everyone had a mustache and drank tea. It was awesome.”

Quinn  _really_ hopes that Brittany’s not talking about  _Schindler’s List_.

It’s probably better to not ask, in this case.

*

It’s funny, because she’s wearing a twirled fake mustache and a monocle, and somehow they’re having a completely serious conversation about what they want from life anyway.

“Kids.  And to be happy,” Brittany says.

“That’s  _it_?” Quinn asks, raising an eyebrow.  It pops the monocle out, and she watches it drop in her tea.

Brittany laughs and then says, “Well, and if I’m lucky I’ll be a dancer, I guess, but I don’t know.  I love dancing, but then I  _love_  kids.  And also being happy. That’s great.”

Quinn doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  “I wish my plan were that short.”

Brittany daintily drinks some more tea and then says, “What’s the plan?”

“Um.  Nationals.  Homecoming.  Prom.  Valedictorian.  4.0 in college.  Handsome, successful husband.   … kids, I guess.  A big house.  Two cars.  A picket fence.”  She doesn’t even realize she’s fucking crying  _again_ until Brittany reaches over with her napkin and dabs at a stray tear on her cheek.

“I don’t want to be like, Mighty Mouse about this, but the things you want in life probably shouldn’t be making you cry,” Brittany finally says, gently.

“Mighty—… you mean Captain Obvious.”

“No, he sucks.  I mean Mighty Mouse.”

Quinn sighs and shakes her head.  “I don’t even know what’s wrong with me.  I’m so depressed all the time and yet I can’t stop laughing when you’re with me.”

“Well, that’s better than not laughing at all,” Brittany says, before tilting her head.  “Seriously though.  What do you  _want_?”

There  _is_  an answer to this, lurking in the back of her mind.  She’s spent so many years, as Lucy, being completely alone, that that in and of itself turned into a lifestyle; and then, because she was hardly living at all, she’d taken to documenting other people’s lives.

Photography had been an acceptable hobby for Lucy, but her father had taken away her camera about three weeks after the nose job and replaced it with a set of car keys.

She’s not sure she’s ready to say any of that out loud yet, though, and so instead she glances at the little tea party set out in front of them, complete with bite-sized PB&J sandwiches that Brittany had brought over in a tupperwear container, and says, “I guess the same things you do.  Except I’m not so sure about the kids.”

“I think you should have them,” Brittany says, and the nods like she’s convinced herself.  “I mean.  You care so much about stuff.  Think about how much you’d care about them.”

“I care about  _stupid_  stuff,” Quinn says, with a sigh.  “And, you know, it’s not that I don’t know.  It’s that it’s just really hard to stop when everyone _expects_  me to care about it.”

“I don’t,” Brittany says, and there’s a stray smear of peanut butter right by her lip, and before Quinn can stop herself she’s wiping it off with her thumb, and then licking her thumb clean.

It’s a weird moment, and she breaks it quickly by saying, “Well, you’re one of a kind.”

“Actually, I have two sisters, so—”

Quinn laughs.  “Whatever, Mighty Mouse.”

*

Things change a little after that.

She’s always been seated  _near_  Brittany in the two classes they have together—and, okay, there’s not a whole lot of sitting in PE—but now she makes it a point to save her a seat.

Santana glares at both of them from the back of the classroom, and Quinn almost chokes on her laughter when Brittany just turns around, makes some sort of zig-zagging motion down her chest and then waves her finger at Santana all ‘nuh-huh’.

“What the hell was that?” she asks, in a quiet whisper, when Home Ec has started again and they’re trying to bake a cake together; Brittany’s whisking, obviously, and Quinn’s measuring, and somehow they’re actually doing all right.

“Oh, I saw that in a Beyonce video.  I think it means that if she likes it, she should put a ring on it.  I mean, not… exactly that.  Just.  Something like that.”

Quinn blinks furiously a few times and then says, “And you’d take her back?”

“I don’t know.  I mean.  She’s my best friend, so if she’s sorry enough…  I don’t know,” Brittany says, sounding really defeated.  “She’d have to stop being so freaked out because we’re both girls, and I just don’t see that happening.”

“That’s a pretty big thing in Ohio, though,” Quinn says, dropping her voice even more.

“I thought you were trying not to care about stupid stuff so much anymore,” Brittany says, a little sharper than expected, and then she turns on the electric mixer, which is a pretty clear sign that they’re done talking.

*

“I didn’t mean—” Quinn says, reaching for her arm at the end of class.

“I know.  But you did.  And so does she.  And that’s the problem,” Brittany says, before calling out Tina’s name and heading after her.

It’s weird, that she’s now being lumped in with Santana.  Weird because—well.

There’s bigger things to worry about than that, because their English midterm requires Brittany to read and understand  _Twelfth Night_  and they only have two weeks.

Quinn’s already reserved two of the movies at the local video store and has been praying overtime; it’s what any decent friend would do.

*

“So everyone is gay, right?” Brittany asks, when the credits roll.

She’s still a little angry, but Quinn’s daily email with a picture of Mighty Mouse seems to be winning her over, and—okay, she can’t really rationalize why she’s making this much effort to begin with, except that having Brittany be upset is like kicking a  _baby_.

That, and she’s not exactly swimming in friends, so.

“Um. …what?”

“Yeah, everyone’s into cross-dressing and gay.  That’s what Shakespeare’s message is.  That it’s cool to like, wear boy clothes and make out with girls.”

Quinn knows her mouth is stupidly open and yet she can’t bring herself to close it.  “Um.”

“You would actually look  _super_  hot in a suit,” Brittany says, eating some more popcorn and giving Quinn a quick glance.  “We should just act this out.  For like, extra credit.”

“She—what.  They marry—um.”  

Brittany’s face falls.  “Are you going to be all weird again because I’m talking about gay things?”

“I’m not  _homophobic_ ,” Quinn stresses, because that feels important.

“Well,  _duh_ , because if you were you would just  _kiss_ me already,” Brittany says, staring her down.

Quinn could debate the semantics some more, and really, someone probably  _should_  have this particular conversation with Brittany, but there’s a more pressing point to dwell on right this second.  “You want to kiss me?”

“Well,  _yeah_ ,” Brittany says, scowling . “And not just because you’re in the way of a perfect record.  That time at cheer camp doesn’t count.  You were like, terrified.  It wasn’t cool.”

She remembers it accurately; feeling like she was either going to hell just on principle, or because Santana was going to kill her ten degrees of dead.  That latter point is still a concern now.

“But—Britt, I’m not  _gay_ ,” Quinn says, as gently as she can.

“So what?  I’m not gay.  I’m just also not stupid enough to pretend to like Finn when there’s other people I like a lot more out there,” Brittany says.  She crankily gets up off of Quinn’s bed a second later and grabs her bag.  “I honestly thought you’d be better about this than Santana, but you’re just as dumb.”

“We’re—we still have to talk about the movie,” Quinn says, dimly. 

“Okay, well, here’s my thoughts.  If you were a guy I’d date you, and if you were a girl I’d date you, and that’s what Shakespeare meant.  That it doesn’t  _matter_.  And I’m going to pass English with or without you, so—whatever,” Brittany says.

She actually slams the door behind her; and then says, “Sorry”, opens it again, and closes it more gently.

Quinn can’t stop staring at the television, and when her hands start to feel like they can move again, she just hits rewind and watches the entire thing a second time.  Maybe Brittany’s outburst will make more sense if she just… watches it again.  And pays more attention to what is going on, this time.

*

The rest of the week is a nightmare.

Finn starts dating Rachel, to absolutely nobody’s great surprise, least of all Quinn’s.  It would be fine, if they didn’t insist on rubbing it in her face all the time; matching  _cat_ calendars, God, who  _does_  stuff like that?

Santana still looks like someone pissed in her cereal, and given that Puck’s also taken to sighing and tossing a few more nerds into dumpsters than usual, it’s pretty obvious that she’s now on the outs with everyone she’s sleeping with.  There’s a sanctimonious part of Quinn that is dying to point out to Santana that she dug her own grave, but really—she’s not one to talk anymore.  And anyway, Santana’s been giving her warning looks for a few days now; she’s been her friend, or frienemy, long enough to know when to stay away.

Brittany has other friends.  She hangs out with Artie, Mike and Tina; they’re on some quiz bowl team or something, and really, this is kind of stuff she should  _know_  about her closest, if not only, friend.  But all she knows is that their oral presentations on  _Twelfth Night_  are coming up, and she’s left Brittany three Facebook messages and two voice mails and there hasn’t been any sort of response.

The problem is that  _Twelfth Night_  is really just not about otherness, and how being different is okay; it’s about how scheming eventually leads to someone else getting the girl, and how people who try very hard to be exactly what other people want them to be usually end up getting nothing.

Brittany is going to fail English.  And somehow, the part that Quinn can’t shake is that it’s all her fault for asking stupid, insensitive questions.

*

That one kiss, at cheer camp, had been a moment of nothing, now that she’s thinking about it.

They’d been drinking (Brittany and Santana, anyway) and were just generally messing around.  They’d found a camp in Pennsylvania just so they wouldn’t have to deal with those senior bitches on the Cheerios, because Santana and Quinn had started planning a coup of the in-charge crowd from the day they first joined up and started having to cover skimmed knees from being bottom of the pyramid.

The  _plan_ , as they called it, was what tied them together.  Not so much Brittany, though, who just flitted around everyone like a manic firefly, bringing sparks of brightness into otherwise all too serious and too devious conversations about rumors they could spread, relationships they could end, and older girls they could topple if they just worked together.

On their last night, Brittany had just gotten fed up with their scheming, and had finally figured out that the most effective way of shutting Santana up was kissing her; and so she’d done just that, straddling Santana  _right in front of_ Quinn (who’d crossed herself reflexively, like they were vampires or something) and kissing her for long, slow and wet-sounding moments.

The change in Santana had been remarkably; she’d gone from snarky and caustic to relaxed and kind of soft around the edges almost immediately, and Quinn remembers clearly wondering at the time if it was just  _kissing_ , or if it was  _Brittany_.

The answer had come when Brittany had shifted, tilted her head backwards and reached for Quinn’s face and kissed her too—upside down, noses jutting awkwardly at chins.  The shock of it had been to great for her to stop it, and it was only Santana going, “Britt, are you trying to  _kill_  the Virgin Mary?” that had snapped her out of it enough to pull away.

Brittany had just smiled and said, “Your lips taste like cherry soda.  I like it.”

Quinn had stammered something about not needing to be a part of “this” and had fled out of their cabin, running all the way to the lake and only stopping when she was already feet-first in the water.

It’s not that she hadn’t liked it.  It’s just that she hadn’t gotten her entire face  _and_  body remodelled to end up an outcast  _yet again_ , and they lived in Ohio—not California, where kissing your best friends was probably normal if not the cool thing to do.

By the time she’d gotten back, Santana had fallen asleep and Brittany was flipping through a copy of Cosmo, pausing only on the pictures of girls in bikinis.  

“I’m not gay, Britt,” Quinn had said.

“I know,” Britt had responded, without even looking up.  “It’s okay.”

The reality of it had been that at the end of the night, Brittany had gotten in bed with Santana, and that was how things  _should_ be.

Quinn’s not entirely sure when she stopped being so convinced of that.

*

Even the fact that she dwells on that kiss for the better part of three nights doesn’t explain why she corners Kurt in the hallway and says, “We need to talk” to him in a tone of voice that brooks absolutely no dissent.

“Are you going to Slushie me?” he asks, cowering away from her.

She sighs and relents.  “ _No_.  I need—fashion advice.”

He perks up almost immediately.  “Well, yes, you do.  But I’m glad you came to me; it’s always very awkward to have to say these things out loud.”

She stares at him, and he makes a small ‘o’ with his mouth.

“It’s not for you.  Oh, this is awkward.  Please don’t hurt me.”

“No, it  _is_ , but it’s just not what you think,” she says, and then pulls on his jacket sleeve.  “Follow me.”

*

It’s unorthodox, having a guy in the girls’ bathroom, but Kurt doesn’t look particularly out of place or uncomfortable there, and just pulls out the folding chair in the corner and sits down in it before motioning for Quinn to stand in front of him.

“I haven’t even told you what I want to do yet,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her.  

“Well, judging by your uncharacteristic hedging, it’s something  _drastic_ , so—I’m having a look.”

She stays silent and watches him scan up and down her body.

“I hope you’re not going to tell me that you’re hoping to win Finn back by dressing like a burlesque dancer, because sweetie, you do  _not_  have the chest for it,” he finally says, and then smiles at her; sarcastically and sincerely at the same time.  “However, your face compensates greatly.  Good lord, your eyelashes.  And, as Mercedes would put it, you have substantial booty for a white girl.”

“Thanks.  I think,” she says, and then exhales slowly.  “And no, I’m not hoping to win Finn back.  This is actually—for English.”

Kurt tilts his head at her.  “Correct me if I’m wrong, the general requirement for English is to  _read the play_ , not—”

“I want to dress as Cesario for my presentation,” she says, quickly, and then feels her face redden when Kurt just gapes at her for a moment.

“You.  You want to  _cross dress_.  In front of our entire class.  That class  _not_ being drama,” he says, word by word, and she’s literally one step away from fleeing the bathroom altogether when he shoots out of the fold-out and pulls her into a hug.  “This is the most spectacular thing you’ll ever do.”

“I’ve won a National cheerleading championship,” she points out, and he pulls back and then gives her a knowing look.

“Doing exactly what everyone expects you to is hardly ever spectacular, Quinn.”

She sighs.  “Yeah.  I guess you have a point.”

Kurt walks around her in a slow circle afterwards and says, “No need for binding, even; and we’ll find some slacks that mask your child-bearing hips.  It’s—are you hoping to go traditional with this, or more modern?”

It’s impossible to not consider Brittany’s enthusiasm about her wearing a suit, and so she takes another deep breath and says, “Modern.”

“We’re roughly the same size,” Kurt says, standing in front of her again with his hands on his hips.  “Shirt, tie—cufflinks.  I’ve got you covered.  Pants, however, we’ll have to go purchase.”

Her entire body flinches at the idea of actually going shopping for  _men’s pants_  with Kurt Hummel, but she breathes through it and realizes that there is no reason to assume that her parents will find out.  “There’s those outlets outside of Columbus.”

He clasps his hands together.  “Brilliant.  God, why have we not been friends before now?”

“Because you were afraid of me, and I was too busy being popular to—”

“Give in to a longstanding desire to dress like a man?” he asks, but he’s smiling.

“It’s not longstanding,” she says, and then rolls her eyes.  “Nor something I’m planning on doing regularly.  I just—”

It’s a bit soon, really, to try to explain her reasoning to anyone else; it hardly even makes sense to her, but if her emails and messages and phone calls aren’t getting the point across to Brittany, she knows this definitely will.

*

Cheerleading is getting almost unbearable, what with how much they’re all not talking to each other, and Quinn does something about it for the sake of earning her captaincy back more than anything else.  Santana is a regular Adolf out on the field these days, probably because she’s not getting laid, and  _someone_  has to talk to her about how she’s drilling morale into the ground harder than Sue Sylvester ever could.

“A word,” she says, shortly, and drags Santana’s scrawny-ass body behind the bleachers.

“You’re going to be running wind sprints until you puke orange,” Santana promises her.  “Don’t fucking  _touch_  me, Fabray.”

“I wouldn’t have to touch you if you’d just get over yourself.  She told you she  _loves_  you, and you respond by going and sleeping with some guy you don’t care about at all?” Quinn just says, before giving Santana her best pointed bitchface.  “What are you,  _five_?”

Santana bristles visibly.  “Well, look at you with all the expert relationship advice; what gave you such amazing insight here, Quinn?  Was it losing your ignorant oaf of a boyfriend to Berry?”

“I broke up with  _him_ , and we’re not here about me,” Quinn snaps.

“No, we’re here because you don’t know how to mind your own business.”

“I’m  _here_  because you are going to lose your best friend in the entire world if you don’t figure out how to stop being such a  _coward_  and—”

Santana actually scoffs.  “Oh,  _you’re_  one to talk.”

“What is  _that_  supposed to mean?”

Santana’s smile is bitter and vicious.  “Here’s a clue for you, Q.  Britts and I may not be buttering each other’s muffins right now, or ever again, but that doesn’t mean that when messed up shit happens to either one of us, we’re not still each other’s number one.”

“If you have a point, get to it,” Quinn says, rolling her eyes.

“You know why things are so weird between us right now?” Santana asks, and there’s an angry jilt in her voice now that has Quinn actually taking a step backwards unwillingly.  “I mean, between all of us?  Because don’t think for a minute you’re not at least a little to blame for this.”

“How is  _you_  not being ready to man up and just be with her  _my_  fault?”

Santana’s jaw sets and she says, “Because  _my best friend_  in the whole wide world showed up at my house a week ago to let me know that she’s sorry, but we’re never getting back together, because she has feelings for someone else, and she’d like it if I could be her best friend for a moment so she could talk about how that person basically rejected the crap out of her.”

Quinn knows she’s paling.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.   _Oh_.  I don’t know whether to slug you for being such a horrible liar or for somehow managing to hurt Brittany’s feelings so badly that she was sad enough to come and talk to  _me_ about them.”

That takes the fight out of her, almost on the spot, and she leans back against the bleachers and runs her hands over her face.  “Shit.”

“Yeah, no kidding.  And for what it’s worth, I wasn’t  _kidding_  about wanting to fucking hit you,” Santana says, suddernly sounding completely devastated.  “Of all the people she could’ve moved on to—”

“You’ve had sixteen years,” Quinn tells her.  “I didn’t screw this up for you.”

“Maybe you didn’t, but she’s right,” Santana says, and gives Quinn another sharp look.  “Our friendship is more important than whatever else we have going on, and people who hurt Brittany have me to answer to.  So—”

“I’m  _not gay_ ,” Quinn says, and it’s coming out so deadened by now that it’s no wonder people don’t believe her.

“You don’t have to be gay to have feelings for a girl,” Santana says, bluntly.  “And trust me—the point at which Brittany says that you have them, they’re there.”

Quinn sighs and slips down to the muddy ground, and then just says, “Look.  I’m not just being like, deliberately obtuse about this.  I miss her.  She’s my friend.  But I don’t exactly fantasize about … buttering her muffin.”

Santana snorts and says, “Yeah, and I’m sure that your mind is just  _full_  of x-rated thoughts about Finn’s tiny, tiny dick.  Right?”

Quinn sighs.  “The fact that I don’t think about Finn’s… parts either doesn’t mean that…”

“Nope, maybe it doesn’t.  But you need to figure out what it is you actually want, because you don’t have a clue.  And if you don’t do it fast enough, you’ll end up where I’m at; with guys like Puck chasing your ass while you’re sitting around wishing you didn’t live in Ohio.”

Quinn glances upwards to where Santana’s picking at her cuticles, and smiles faintly.  “What do you think we’d be doing right now if we weren’t in Ohio?”

“Threesome,” Santana says, immediately.

“I really don’t think—”

“It was a joke, you prude bitch.  Anyway.  As much as I’d like to sit here and be your gay life coach some more, I’m still fighting the urge to just strangle you, so—I’m going to go back and you’re going to run some wind sprints, or I’ll actually beat your ass.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Quinn says, but reaches for Santana’s ankle before she can walk away.  “And—thanks.  For not—”

“I’m not keeping my cool for you, so don’t thank me,” Santana says, kicking her ankle loose.

Quinn watches her go, and then drags herself to her feet and back to the track.

Brittany’s eyes are on her as she starts running, and it’s literally the only thing that keeps her going.

*

Santana’s out of the question for further discussion on this, and so she finds out what she can the traditional way: by praying that her parents don’t walk in on her while she’s sending questionable questions to google.com.

Her laptop search history is now littered with questions about sexuality and sexual arousal and yeah.  Maybe it should’ve been a clue a few years before now that every time she even so much as hears the word masturbation, she immediately feels the need to start praying.  That’s not normal.  Obviously.   

There’s a lot of hellfire and damnation in her personal history that explain _why_  she’s the way she is now, but—she’s done not dealing with that now.

Santana’s right.  It’s becoming a problem.

She’s halfway through a bottle of her mom’s finest Glenlivet  before she can even  _start_  thinking about other people naked, and even then it’s a challenge to think about anything in particular.  Finn, massive and clumsy and awkward—and that  _thing_  between his legs.  It’s apparently not uncommon for girls to not be overly attracted to boy parts, but she’s not entirely clear on whether or not it’s normal to shudder at the mere  _thought_  of them.

Girls—that’s easier.  She sees them naked all the time, in the locker room, and it’s weird but she can immediately pull up a visual to go with every single one of her teammates.  The ones with big boobs; the ones with smaller ones.  The ones that have legs that go on for miles, and the ones that are shorter, and curvier.  

Apparently it’s also not uncommon for girls to think about other girls naked; it’s a body image thing, or something.  But, in everything she’s read, there’s a line there, too; normal girl-to-girl admiration isn’t the same thing as … appreciation.

Ironically, it’s thinking about Brittany dancing that gets a response out of her body, and she forces her eyes open and grapples for the bottle of scotch on the comforter next to her, before drinking until her eyes start to water.

She  _hates_  Santana for doing this to her, she thinks, when she’s swallowed all of it and just feels like the entire room is going to tip over on top of her instead.

She hates Santana, and the fact that lesbian porn is so easy to find on the internet, and the fact that she’s too drunk to not look at some, and the fact that yeah, it doesn’t put her off nearly as much as it should.

The painting of Jesus on the wall stares at her accusingly, and she stares back until there’s three of them, and she’s gagging so hard that she only barely makes it to the bathroom before throwing up.

Maybe this is progress.  She’s just not entirely sure that it’s the kind of progress she wants to be making.

*

The day of the English presentation, Kurt meets her outside of the Cheerios locker room and slips inside with her, garment back draped over his arm.

“I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re doing something very brave.  Even if you’re not doing it for the reasons that people will assume you are; this is quite a statement to make in this conservative cow town,” he tells her, when he’s tucked her hair under her hat, and she’s trying to decide if she actually wants to put on a fake mustache or not.

It will mean something to Brittany, but—it might also make the entire thing look like a joke, and in the end she just sighs and lets her eyes flutter against the mascara brush Kurt is holding out for her.

“Dapper.  Really, if I hadn’t  _just_ seen your breasts, this would almost be a crush-worthy moment,” he tells her, leaning over her shoulder and snapping a quick picture of them on her phone.

It’s surprisingly comfortable, the suit.  For one second, she pictures going home in it, and almost laughs at the idea of her parents’ faces.

She doesn’t have a death wish, however.  And this isn’t about her parents, or even about her.

*

She’s prepared so much that she could pretty much recount every word of her speech in her  _sleep_ , but one second of looking at Brittany and all the words just leave her head.

Seriously.  All she can do is stand at the front of the classroom and stare, and Brittany slowly straightens while staring back at her, and then the beginnings of a  _tiny_  smile appear on her face, and it sort of snaps Quinn out of it.

“Twelfth Night is about self-acceptance.  It is about embracing who we are on the inside, and making people love us for it.  It teaches a valuable lesson about how external perceptions are irrelevant in light of conscious action, and despite its severely heteronormative conclusion, actually serves as a fantastic illustration of the struggle that every one out there with a non-mainstream sex or gender identity faces on a daily basis.”

Her teacher looks at her with raised eyebrows and then says, “Can you elaborate?”

Quinn takes a deep breath and looks back at Brittany and says, “Basically, its implied message is that it’s okay to be gay and to be into cross-dressing, and anyone who says otherwise isn’t going to live a particularly happy life.”

Brittany’s smile grows, and all of Quinn’s prepared words come flooding back into her head.

*

She’s already changed out of the pants and back into her cheerleading uniform when the locker room opens, and Brittany sweeps in and reaches for her hands.  She’s twirled without permission, and then Brittany leans in and somehow, with just a nudge of her head, knocks the hat off Quinn and kisses her all at once.  It’s friendly, more than anything, and for once it doesn’t actually take every ounce of Quinn’s resolve to stay put.

She’s fine where she is, when Brittany pulls away and bends down to pick the hat back up, before planting it back on Quinn’s head at a jaunty angle.

“That was  _amazing_ ,” she then says.  “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I got an A,” Quinn says, fully aware of the stupid smile on her face.  “And two hundred dollar dress pants that my dad will never know he paid for.”

“You should wear them more often; your ass was like, to  _die_  for in them,” Brittany says, one hand snaking out to tuck some of Quinn’s stray hair behind her ear—but then she hesitates and pulls back a little bit more, with an uncertain look on her face.  “I mean, wait, I’m being a donkey…  You wore that stuff today for  _me,_ right?”

Quinn takes a deep breath.  “I did that because—you were right.  I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, and—”

“Are you homophobic now?” Brittany asks, biting her lip, and Quinn hesitates because—there’s the actual meaning of that word, and then there’s what Brittany thinks it means.

“What I am is… confused,” she finally says, and then forces herself to look Brittany in the eyes.  “But the last two weeks have been horrible, and I really like spending time with you, and I … I guess I also like it when you kiss me, so—”

Brittany blinks at her furiously for a moment.

“Oh God, what is it?” Quinn asks, almost immediately panicking, because Brittany doesn’t  _cry_.  And if she ever does, whoever’s responsible for it is going to get killed by Santana, so this is bad no matter how she looks at it.

“Nothing, just, you said  _out loud_  that you like it.  Me, I mean, or the kissing,” Brittany says, softly, wiping at her eyes and then biting her lip.  “That’s—wow—”

“I’m  _not_  Santana,” Quinn says, awkwardly, because that only feels like a half truth at best..

“No.  You’re Quinn.  And Lucy, I guess, but mostly you’re just  _you_ ,” Brittany says, and then reaches for Quinn’s hand.  “And things are going to be fine.  I promise.”

Quinn’s seen enough promises fall to the wayside for a lifetime to take much stock into that, but when Brittany pulls her out of the locker room and into the hallway and holds on to her hand regardless, it feels more like a statement of fact than the illusion that everything will  _always_  be great, for either of them.

*

She gets invited to meet Lord Tubbington, later that day.

“I don’t think I’ve ever dated anyone before,” Brittany says, leaning against Quinn’s car after classes.  Quinn’s torn between glancing at what she’s doing (which is finding her keys) and glancing at Brittany, who looks so genuinely happy that it’s like—well,  _fuck_  her car keys.  “I mean, I’ve slept with like, half the school—”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Quinn says, a little prickly.

Brittany blinks at her.  “I don’t know what that means, but I have a list and it’s literally half.”

“Oh,” Quinn says, training her eyes on her bag.

Brittany’s hand on her back is calming.  “What I mean is, none of those people even wanted to meet my cat.  You know?  And I know you’ve already met him because you’ve been at my house for parties and stuff, and he’s probably going to try to steal you and then I’ll have to take him off the fondue diet again—”

“The—the what?” Quinn asks,  _finally_  finding her keys.

“He loves cheese.  What can you do?” Brittany says, with a shrug.  “Anyway.  You  _want_  to meet Lord Tubbington, who, you know, other than Santana is like the most important person in the world to me.  Even though he’s a cat.  I’m going to make him an internet celebrity because he’s awesome.  And you want to meet him, so.”

Things with Brittany really have no right to be so easy, but somehow in about three half-completed sentences, it’s become okay for Quinn to be  _way_ awkward about sex (with anyone, let alone a girl) and for Brittany to be  _way_ too comfortable with it all over again.

“I’d be honored to meet Lord Tubbington.  Formally,” Quinn says, not able to hide her smile at all.

“See?  That’s what I mean.  I’d rather have that than sex,” Brittany says, flipping her hand against Quinn’s hat.  “Although I mean, really, I’d like both, so when you’re ready, let me know.  Lord Tubbington likes to watch.”

“Your cat—”  Quinn starts to say, and then watches as Brittany laughs and shakes her head.

“Okay, no.  That was a joke, Quinn.  Don’t be gross.  He’s only  _three_.  I don’t want to like, scar him.”

Quinn can’t even really tell if Brittany is messing with her or not, but either way, apparently the cat  _won’t_  be watching them do it, which is probably what matters here.  That, and—the fact that apparently Brittany thinks they’re going to do it.

“Get in the car,” she just says, finally, already blushing when Brittany just says, “Oh, are you going to be bossy?  Because that’s way hot.”

Yeah.  Things aren’t going to be  _entirely_  the same.

*

Kurt finds her the next morning and just hisses, “You could’ve  _told_ me you were trying to seduce  _Brittany Pierce_.  If Santana Lopez ever finds out I helped you—”

“She won’t,” Quinn says, and then adds, as an afterthought, “And I wasn’t trying to seduce her.  It just sort of… had to be done.”

“You just sort of  _had to wear_  a men’s suit for her.”

Quinn shrugs and says, “It was the best way to apologize.  I can’t explain it any better than that.”

“But you’re—together now?” he presses, and when she looks at his face, there’s more than just gossip mongering there; he looks personally interested, like—

Oh, right.  She hadn’t really considered this at all, but—there’s political _statements_  attached to her answers and her behavior now.  Not just the church’s judgment, and her parents’ inevitable fury, but people like Kurt Hummel, who have born the brunt of being different throughout high school by now.

It doesn’t seem to matter too much that the kids who did the bullying are, well, the new role models now, and maybe this is how she can repay Kurt for all the crap she and her friends did to him over the years.

“We’re figuring that out.  And while we are, we’re keeping this low key, because—I want to go to college, and my parents will just—” she starts to say, and the reality of that is too depressing for her to continue.

“Say no more,” Kurt says, and then takes a quick breath before adding, “God, if anything can change things at this school for the better, it’s having two of the hottest girls in it in a relationship.  So—you have my vote of support.  Regardless of how you approach this from now on, or if Santana Lopez is going to murder me in my sleep.”

It reminds Quinn that they really need to talk to Santana; together or separately, because as much as this isn’t about her—it obviously  _is_.

“You’ve been a good friend,” she tells Kurt, before all of her etiquette training demands that she keeps everything bottled up some more.  “I haven’t deserved it before now, but—I’ll try to deserve it from now on.”

Kurt smiles briefly and then says, “Dinner at Breadstix?  You, me, Britt and Mercedes?”

“Yeah.  Absolutely,” she says, because not only does it sound like  _fun_ , but it sounds exactly like what she can get away with in Ohio for now.

*

Brittany is already talking to Santana by the time she gets to the locker room.

“I get it, okay?  I get it.  I know you didn’t set out to screw me like this, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.  And I  _know_ it’s my own fault for being too—too scared to be with you, but—” Santana’s saying, before she spots Quinn, and then she just shuts up altogether.

“I know this sucks for you,” Brittany says.  “And if you like, need time to make other friends or whatever, I understand.  We’ll be here when you get back.”

“You’re both dropping to the bottom of the pyramid,” Santana says, roughly.

“I know, baby,” Brittany responds, and then Santana’s hugging her and crying, and Quinn backs out of the locker room before anything else happens that she really shouldn’t be seeing right now.

Whatever goodbyes they have to say to each other, it’s none of her business.

*

She’s watching a really old episode of the  _Power Rangers_  on Brittany’s couch later that week when her phone rings.

 _if you don’t take good care of her i am fucking outing you to your entire family and then setting your car on fire_

Quinn laughs and leans her head against Brittany’s shoulder.  “I think Santana’s learning to cope.”

“Which one would you be?” Brittany says in response.

“Which one what—Power Ranger?” Quinn asks, and then starts thinking about the answer when Brittany just nods and starts playing with her hand.

It’s ridiculous.  Nobody else in her life would bother asking her this question; maybe important philosophical questions about the borderlines between ethics and morality, or questions about religious education in the United States, or even her opinion on the latest in animal-testing in make-up products.  But nothing this—ridiculous.

She’s forced everyone in her life to take her exceptionally seriously, except Brittany, who is now one of two people she can actually relax around.  The other is Kurt, and the reason she can relax around him is because he’s completely fascinated by the public facade of Quinn Fabray on the one hand, and that girl in skinny jeans and a comfort hoodie who had dinner at his house last week with her girlfriend and laughed at a joke his dad made about Kurt’s corsage selection on the other.

“I think everyone else would say you’re the black one,” Brittany finally says.  “You know, because you like to pretend you’re evil.  But really you’re the pink one.”

“Why?”

“Duh, she’s hot,” Brittany says, and kisses her.

Irrefutable logic is kind of Brittany’s specialism.

*

When Finn finds out, he takes it  _really_ personally.

“You didn’t  _make me_  anything,” Quinn says, as calmly as she can.  Really, if not for the troubled and annoyed look on Rachel’s face—hovering at Finn’s side, like she’s waiting to have to sling a hook into him to keep him or something—she’d just have left, but maybe part of being the kind of person who dates Brittany also requires her to give everyone else a break for a change.

“Well, you weren’t gay when you were dating me, right?” Finn asks.

He sounds so panicked that it’s almost funny, and Quinn just sighs and says, “Look—I’m not  _gay_.  I’m not anything.  All I know is that when I was with you, I spent half my life wondering why my boyfriend was in love with someone else, and when I’m with Brittany, I spend half my life debating whether it would be creepy or awesome if fish learned how to walk.  Now ask me if I’m happier  _now_ , or then.”

Finn stares at her mutely, and Rachel clears her throat after a moment and says, “I’d go with creepy.”

“Yeah, me too,” Quinn says, and for one strange moment wonders if maybe, they could be friends if a black hole just swallowed Finn Hudson altogether.

Then, she spots Brittany at the end of the hallway and dismisses them both altogether with a quick, “Excuse me”, and laughs when Brittany picks her up and twirls her for absolutely no reason.

“I bought you a stuffed cat, but then Lord Tubbington claimed it as his mate, so now I can’t give it to you,” Brittany tells her, before putting her down and linking their hands together again.

Quinn glares at the few onlookers around them until they go about their business again, and then says, “My cat can live with you, and I can just exercise visitation rights.”

“Is that like when you have sex with someone when they’re in prison?”

Quinn coughs out of nowhere and then says, “No—those are conjugal visits.”

“Like what you do with verbs?” Brittany asks, sounding more confused than ever.

“No—” Quinn says, laughing, and then just says, “I’ll come visit my cat, okay?”

“That sounds  _really_ dirty after you’ve been talking about prison sex, Quinn,” Brittany tells her.

Quinn just stares at her for another moment, and then Brittany breaks into a grin and hip-checks her.  “Geez, you are so easy.”

“I’m  _shy_.”

“I’ve seen you naked like a million times, and I mean, you could look like—Mr. Schuester and I’d still want to make out with you,” Brittany says, with a shrug.  “I like you because you try so hard to make everyone happy, and you’re secretly funny.  I like that only I know that you’re funny.  It’s like—”

“Special,” Quinn says, and then squeezes Brittany’s hand for emphasis.  “I know.  But I  _am_  going to go on the record to tell you that I can’t possibly date someone who would actually make out with Mr. Schuester.”

“His hair looks like gerbils could nest there,” Brittany says, sounding pensive.  “I’m just curious.”

“Brittany—”

“What?  I like your hair better,” Brittany says, rolling her eyes a little.  “I just like  _knowing_  stuff, okay.”

It’s true; a good half of the time they spend together is Brittany going through their homework and asking outlandish questions that won’t be on the syllabus, but somehow make Quinn just want to kiss her over and over again.  The afternoon when Brittany discovered that they had all the cable premium history and animal channels at Quinn’s house is one she won’t forget anytime soon; and she can’t ever visit an aquarium again, because looking at manatees now makes her—

“I like that about you,” Quinn says, because they’re in  _public_  and maybe stuff  _happens_  to her now, but she’s still not exactly sure she can talk about that, out loud.  Ever.  Not without being smote, anyway.  “I like that you’re secretly incredibly clever, and that some day you’re going to be an amazingly famous dancer, and that when I tell you that I got us tickets to go to the  _Lion King_  in Cleveland next week—”

And then there’s a squeal, and then there’s lips on hers, and she’s being pushed backwards out of the building and into the parking lot, the door handle jamming into her back, but it’s completely worth it for the insanely happy look on Brittany’s face when she pulls away.

“I  _love_  the Lion King.”

“I know, you’ve told me,” Quinn says, and pulls her back in for one more kiss.  Some people cat call, and some of the football players yell at them to get a room and invite some dudes in for a really good time, but the reality is that most people just think that they’re two cheerleaders who have lost their minds together and are now doing it and—

She finds that she doesn’t really care one way or the other.

They  _tried_  to keep it quiet, but Finn told the entire football team and the reality of it is that maybe she’s happier this way: just being honest about who she is.

*

The brochure for Bible Camp that she finds on the doormat, addressed to her parents, should really warn her enough, but it’s the look on her mother’s face—it just screams  _not sober enough for this, and I’m sorry, I tried_ —that immediately lets her know something is wrong.

“You have two choices.  This either ends now, or you stop being my daughter,” her father says, glass of scotch in hand, leaning against the kitchen door frame like this is a conversation they have every day.

“This—being, what, exactly?” she asks, because she can’t help herself.

She’s going to cry, because it’s one thing to know that her family loves the idea of her more than the reality of her, but it’s another to actually be told as much, out loud.

“Your … dalliance with the Pierce girl,” her father says, calmly.  “Quinnie—you’re the apple of my eye, but—”

“Oh, that’s rich,” she says, before she can help herself, and then there is  _so_ much anger that it almost scares her.  She pushes it out, because she doesn’t want to live like this.  “The apple of your eye.  Yeah, Quinn is, maybe.  But you were all too happy to give up on Lucy, weren’t you?”

His expression darkens momentarily.  “ _Lucy_  was a self-loathing, insecure and cripplingly lonely little girl who  _begged_ me for a second chance at being a more accomplished, worthy person.  And I gave it to her, so don’t you try to turn this around on me now.”

“What kind of father lets a thirteen year old girl get a  _nose job_?” she asks him, her voice shaking.  “You really think that I wanted you to say  _yes_?  That I wasn’t hoping you would say that it wasn’t necessary?  That you loved me  _anyway_?”

Her mother lets out a choked sob, but goes back to staring at the coffee table.

Her father actually laughs at her.  “Oh, spare me.  As if everything about your life hasn’t improved substantially for the better since then.  Not that I would expect you to be grateful; your kind isn’t exactly known for its …”

“My  _kind_?” she repeats, disbelievingly.

They stare at each other for a long moment, and then he shakes his head.  “Lucy was a disappointment to me, but you?  I don’t even know who you are.”

The timer on the microwave is set after that, and without even reentering the room he calls out, “You have thirty minutes.  Leave your car keys.”

She won’t give him or her mother the satisfaction of doing anything other than running up the stairs and grabbing everything that matters to her.

It’s less than a bag full of things, and that’s  _with_  her making space for the men’s dress pants.  They feel more like they belong with her than anything else in this horribly fake, emotionally void household.

She’s already outside and shoving her keys back through the mailbox that it occurs to her that leaving is one thing, but she needs somewhere else to go.

Duffel bag over her shoulder, and cheerleading uniform still on, she starts walking.  The tears strike at the end of the street, when she knows she won’t ever set foot in this neighborhood again.

Her next destination is almost automatic, and she takes a deep breath before heading to Hummel Tire & Autos.

*

Burt Hummel drives her back to his house silently, and then gives her a sympathetic look.

“Look—Kurt says you’re not gay, but you’ve got a girlfriend, so I’m going to just assume that you’re  _something_  other than straight—I don’t know how these things work or how I’m supposed to keep track.  The thing is, in this town, if you’re not straight, there are a lot of bad things waiting to happen to you, and Kurt and I have been dealing with them for a long time.  So if you need somewhere to stay—”

“I don’t want to put you out,” she says, and closes her eyes, because she _thinks_  she has alternatives.  She might be able to stay with Brittany, or with Santana, even; however weird and broken things are between the three of them, this would supersede their personal feelings by some distance.  

“You eat like a mouse, Quinn, so I don’t see how you could possibly put me out.  If Kurt ever had to leave his home in a hurry, there’d be three bags just for his hair and make-up products to pick up, so—” Burt says, with a fond little smile, and Quinn laughs softly before wiping at her eyes again.

“At least let me… do something.  To help out.”

Burt gives her a serious look and says, “Have Kurt’s back.  At school.  And you won’t owe me a thing.”

The mere idea that  _this_  is what parents are supposed to be like sets her off crying again, and Burt leaves her alone in the passenger seat; a few minutes later, Kurt appears in the doorway and says, “I made us some cocoa, and I called Brittany.  Okay?  Come in with her, when you’re ready.”

She nods and lowers her head to her knees and takes a few deep breaths, and that’s how Brittany finds her; she’s pulled out of the seat and into a silent hug almost immediately.

Other people would say, and will say, that they’re sorry.

Brittany just runs a hand through her hair and tucks her under her chin, and then says, “If I had a pet lion, I would totally train it to like, bite your dad.  He sucks so hard, Quinn.  I don’t understand how genes work but I’m pretty sure you’re adopted because you’re amazing and your parents are just so—”

There’s not much more to say than that, and Brittany just holds on until the last wave of tears is gone, and then presses a soft kiss to the top of Quinn’s head.

“Living with Kurt is going to be totally amazing for your nail beds,” she then says, and Quinn laughs weakly before pulling away and saying, “Always look on the bright side, huh?”

Brittany gives her a serious look and says, “Only when you can’t.  That’s what I’m here for.”

Quinn could say something like  _not just that_ , but really—Brittany knows.

They head into the Hummel household together, Quinn’s duffel bag dangling from Brittany’s shoulder, and sometime over the next four hours—with Brittany steadfast at her side—Quinn figures out how to forget about today and look towards tomorrow.

*

Santana calls her later that night.

“Dude.  I know we’re on the outs because you’re screwing my girl, but—”

“I’m not…  screwing her,” Quinn corrects, mildly.  She’s not sure how to address the ‘my girl’ issue because, honestly, Brittany will always be a little bit Santana’s, and it doesn’t bother her.

“Well, you really should, because that’s a resource that’s meant to be tapped, but— _dude_ ,” Santana says.

“Karma,” Quinn suggests, staring at the ceiling fan in the Hummel guest bedroom, and already missing Brittany like someone ran off with her third arm.

“Oh, get off it.  Nobody deserves to have shit like this happen to them; least of all for… falling in love with someone else,” Santana says, wavering only a little at the end of the sentence.

Quinn doesn’t think she can handle addressing that statement, and so instead she says, “Are you maybe up for a midnight KFC run?”

“Your idea of rebelling is just so painfully lame, Q,” Santana says, but it sounds like she’s smiling, and twenty minutes later there’s a text message calling her outside.

*

Their sneaky Cheerios-diet-violating meal goes by mostly in silence, until Santana clears her throat and says, “You’re making her happy.”

“I think she’s making  _me_  happy, actually,” Quinn amends, picking at a wing and then saying, “I’m doing what I can, though.”

“Didn’t think you had it in you to be this balls-out about anything other than—you know.  The popular girl cliches.”

“I didn’t either,” Quinn says, with a soft smile.  “Brittany’s pretty—”

“Yeah, I know.  All I mean is that… I shouldn’t have underestimated you.”

“Ditto,” Quinn says, and pelts a chicken ball across the table.

They get kicked out for starting a food fight, even though it’s just at their table and just between the two of them, and then Santana pulls her into a brief, one-armed hug.

“We’ll be all right.  Just stay on the squad, and you’ll get a scholarship and we’ll all get the fuck out of here.  You don’t  _need_  them, and they don’t deserve you,” she says, quickly, before pulling away and saying, “Brittany likes Mexican food if it’s not too spicy and if you buy Lord T a present, she will be all over you like catnip.  Okay?”

It’s almost not awkward anymore, and Quinn smiles faintly and says, “I’m getting captaincy back, next year.  Just fyi.”

“Your skinny WASP ass is going to  _try,_ is what you mean,” Santana says, flipping her off and heading to the driver’s side of her car.

Quinn would figure out a comeback, but she gets stuck on thinking about whether or not she even  _is_ a WASP anymore— and when she gets back to Kurt’s place and lets herself in with their spare key, all she wants to do is text Brittany with the lamest pun she’s ever come up with.

 _I once was a WASP and now I’m just a WAS_.

Brittany sends back a picture of a wet cat.

It’s the best conversation she’s had all day.

*

Maybe she  _is_  falling in love; there’s no other reason to explain why on earth she’s tolerating Brittany’s two week marathon of singing Hakuna Matata every time there’s a plausible break for singing in their lives.

The date hadn’t entirely worked out as planned; now that she’s essentially homeless, she can’t exactly afford the dinner reservation she made, and Brittany had to drive and she’d barely been able to slip her five bucks for gas, but that hadn’t really seemed to change all that much about the success of the day.

It’s after sunset when they get back, and Brittany parks in front of Kurt’s house and gives Quinn an unexpectedly serious look.

“I want us to have sex,” she says, and then holds up a hand when Quinn opens her mouth to say—well, something.  She’s not even sure  _what,_ exactly.  “Not right now.  But I want us to work towards it.  Okay?”

“Um.  We  _have_  been working towards it,” Quinn says, wondering if she’s as red as she feels.

“No, what we’ve been doing is making out a lot, which is awesome; you’re a great kisser.  But I suck at words, and I don’t know how to plan amazing dates, and you’re basically just stopping me from showing how I feel about you.  It’s not fair,” Brittany says, and then glances out the window for a moment.  “I know that everyone thinks I’m just easy, and—”

“I don’t,” Quinn says, reaching for her hand.  “I mean.  I think that sex itself is easy  _for_  you, but that doesn’t mean that—you know.”

“The thing is, it  _is_  easy.  It’s only hard when it means stuff, and it would mean  _so much_  with you,” Brittany says, biting her lip.  “Just—you know.  Let me touch your boobs tonight.  I promise I won’t push for more, but I just really need to let you know how happy I am right now.”

If guys were anywhere near  _this_ good at extolling the merits of intercourse, Quinn would’ve never even bothered with starting the abstinence club.

“You’re manipulating me a little,” she says, more for posterity than anything else.  She’s not actually offended.  God help her, she’s charmed.. 

“Manipulating you would be like, saying we couldn’t kiss unless you agreed to have sex with me.  I’d never do that.  It’s gross,” Brittany says, making a face.  “You should kiss me because you want to, and you should let me touch you because you want me to—and I mean, it’s okay if you’re scared, but—you do  _want_  to, right?”

There is an extra element of special hell attached to having seriously, seriously distressingly sexual dreams in  _someone else’s guest bedroom,_ but there isn’t any real reason to deny that they’re there.  And usually about Brittany’s legs, or her stomach, or—that look in her face when their kissing’s been going on for a little too long and she clamps down on wanting more.

“Yeah,” she says, not  _quite_  being able to look Brittany in the eye.  “Of course I do.  I’m—I have some issues, but I’m not, you know.   _Broken_.”

Brittany laughs and says, “Phew.”

Quinn licks at her lips for a second and then says, “Remember how we talked about what we wanted, and you said kids and happiness?”

“Yeah,” Brittany says, and then twists her lips.  “I should add you to that list.”

Quinn tries not to grin.  “Good job, Romeo.”

“What, it’s true,” Brittany says, and leans in for a soft, sealing kiss.  “Anyway.  Yeah, I remember.”

“Right, well.  What I want is—to be happy, and to be able to do what I want to do for a living, which is—”

“Photography,” Brittany says, and smiles when Quinn looks at her in surprise.  “You just got this look on your face when we were in Best Buy to buy Just Dance the other day; like you wanted to have sex with the cameras.”

“How do you even notice… well, it doesn’t really matter.  Yes, I’d like to be a photographer, and go to college to study composition and things like that; but before all of that, what I want is to have sex with someone who makes me believe that I’m worth it.”

“Worth what?”

“Just—” Quinn says, and then sighs.  “Like I’m  _good enough_.”

“For sex?” Brittany asks, raising her eyebrows.  “Quinn, everyone’s good enough for sex; it’s like, the other stuff where it gets complicated.”

“No, I mean—good enough to…”  She knows exactly what she wants to say, but the words jumble in her head, and then she just looks at Brittany with a sort of pleading expression.  “I want it to be with someone who likes me for  _me_.”

“Oh, well, that’s totally me, then,” Brittany says, looking intensely relieved.  “I mean, I love you and we’re both really flexible, so that helps.  And sometimes you just look at me and I’m like, you know, those rabbits in that documentary we saw the other day, except by myself—but someday it’ll be with you, and then I think we’ll probably just explode, like that planet on _Discovery_  last week.  Remember?”

Quinn takes a deep breath and says, “Can we go back to the start of that?”

“Um,” Brittany says.  “Sure.  Can I touch your boobs?”

Quinn laughs and blushes simultaneously.  “No, the—the part where you said you love me.”

Brittany blinks.  “Oh, huh.”

“If you want a take-back..,” Quinn starts to say, and Brittany just rolls her eyes.

“Quinn, you’re like—one of my best friends.  On top of everything else.  Of course I love you.  And when you’re ready to hear that I’m in love with you we can totally talk about that, too, but for now I just want to round second base and then we can—”

Quinn chuckles and leans over the console to kiss Brittany deeply.  “Just stop talking.”

“Yeah, words aren’t really my thing,” Brittany says, and Quinn just presses their foreheads together and smiles, because they can talk about how  _wrong_ Brittany is about that some other time.

*

Rachel pulls through for them around the time Sectionals rolls around.

“It’s a diversion from our traditional choreography, but—you two should dance with each other.  The club’s gotten along a lot better since you started dating, and, anyway, I wouldn’t want you two to hide what you have.  Kurt and Mike will be dancing together as well, so it won’t be a focal point of the performance, but—”

Rachel shuts up when Brittany hugs her, and even Quinn somewhat grudgingly says, “That’s—thanks, Rachel.”

“Not a problem,” Rachel says, lightly, and Quinn mentally retracts almost every horrible thought she’s ever had about the girl—until she spots her argyle knee socks, and whatever.  She’s not  _perfect_.

“We are going to need to practice,” Brittany says, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek—quick and discreet, because Santana’s there and nobody wants to be a complete asshole about this.  “Because, you know I like you, but your hips move like you’re a robot, and not in a good way.”

“I resent that,” Quinn says, with a small frown, until Brittany flicks her in the nose and they all take their seats.

Santana texts her shortly after Mr. Schue starts outlining their song selections.

 _if i actually die from gagging we won’t have enough members to compete and then the dwarf will kill your ass harder than i ever could_

Quinn muffles some laughter in her hand and sends back a quick,  _I love you too, you cantankerous, whiny bitch._

*

Brittany’s idea of practice involves a lot of grinding while lying down.

“No—don’t stop—just let them do what they want to,” she says, lips still pressed against Quinn’s neck and one hand on Quinn’s hips, encouraging them to roll.

“This feels like a really badly disguised attempt to have sex with me,” Quinn says, laughing a little.

Brittany leans up on one arm, and God, she’s  _so strong_ , it’s surreal.  “Quinn, trust me.  If I was trying to have sex with you, you’d  _know_.”

“Would I?” Quinn asks, unable to help herself—because yeah, second base is in the distance now, and Brittany’s not exactly shy about letting her know just how much self-pleasuring has been taken place lately what with all of their post-second-base making out, and—she’s Googled this, too, and there doesn’t really seem to be any sort of difference between third and home when it comes to two girls, so the next thing they can do together is…

Well.

 _It_.

Brittany’s eyes darken, and then she says, “You know what they say about playing with fire.”

“You get burned?”

“No; just, lock your door first,” Brittany says, and is off the bed in a flash.  When she gets back, all she’s wearing is her panties, and Quinn’s eyes widen almost painfully quickly.

“I was just—”

“No, you weren’t,” Brittany says, staying next to her, not touching her, and looking her calmly in the eyes.  “You  _weren’t_ just saying.  You’re ready.  And now I just have to make it okay for you.”

Quinn swallows and says, “I’m—”

Brittany smiles.  “It’s  _okay_.  Honestly.  I learned about hell because like, I watched  _Hercules the Movie_ and there’s an underworld there, and … it’s not so bad.  If we’re going there, we’ll be together, and we won’t ever have to wear clothing because it’ll be nice and warm, and I’m pretty sure Santana will show up sooner or later because, you know, Satan.  It’ll be fine.  And we probably won’t even go, because I’ve been having sex for a long time now and I’m still here.  Okay?”

This isn’t that simple.  It really isn’t, except then Brittany just reaches for her hand and strokes against her palm with a steady thumb for a few seconds, and it somehow makes all the noise go way.

Quinn closes her eyes and says, “It is ridiculous how much I’ve been thinking about … this.”

“It’s not ridiculous.  I’m crazy hot, I don’t know how you ever think about anything else,” Brittany says, and then pulls gently, until they’re both on their sides facing each other.  “C’mon.  I think I know how to do this, and—just touch me.  I won’t touch you, but you can do whatever you want.”

Quinn’s head literally swims with ideas almost instantly, but then Brittany’s lips are on her, soft and reassuring, and she focuses on that kiss until her hand starts to wander on its own.  It starts on Brittany’s side, and then gently follows the curve of her back, until it’s up by her shoulder, scratching lightly.

Still, it’s a lot to go from there to  _other_  places, and after a long, long few minutes of trading slow, deep kisses, Brittany laughs and says, “C’mon.  I’m failing biology, but even I know there’s more interesting places to touch than that.”

Quinn sighs and then says, “I know.  I just need a second.”

The hand that brushes by her cheek and Brittany’s soft, “I really,  _really_  want you, Quinn” is what finally make her think,  _God, whatever_.

When, seconds later, Brittany arches forward into her hand, nipple hard against her palm, and just says, “There, that’s one; you should totally find the rest of the interesting places” in a breathless and happy voice, she stops having to convince herself that this is  _fine_.

*

She  _cries,_ when Brittany’s slowly stroking fingers grind to a halt; cries because it’s so unbelievably good, and because it’s  _Brittany_ , and this is just so many degrees of messed up that she’s pretty sure that Brittany will _never ever_  have sex with her again, because—seriously, who  _cries_  when they have their first orgasm?

“Wow,” Brittany just says, softly, right by her ear, before kissing it and nuzzling in close.  “That was—okay, you know that song about the double rainbow?  You know—all the way across the sky.  Yeah?”

Quinn takes a deep breath and forces herself to stay put, but she does scramble for the covers and pull them over her.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she finally does manage, and God, she can’t even  _look_  at Brittany anymore.

Brittany’s having none of that, though, and gently grasps her chin and forces them to make eye contact.

“That was like, a  _triple_  rainbow,” she finally says, deadly serious, and then she presses a soft kiss to Quinn’s lips.

“I’m so embarrassed,” Quinn finally says, when they break away.  She wipes at her eyes until she’s sure they’re dry.

“Don’t be stupid.  Because you  _cried_?  That’s like, super flattering.  And don’t worry, it won’t always be like that, either.  We’ll have like.. fun sex, and sex with like, costumes and stuff, and oh… really quick sneaky sex, probably in the locker room, actually, and—then we’ll have serious sex, like two years from now, when you ask me to move to Chicago with you, and then we’ll have happy sex because I’ll say yes, and—”

Quinn laughs and says, “You have it all figured out, don’t you.”

Brittany just smiles back at her and says, “My plan’s so much better than yours.  It mostly involves us hugging naked a lot.”

“Well, you’re starting to sell me on it,” Quinn agrees.

They stare at each other stupidly for a moment, and then Brittany says, “So, I have this fantasy where I’m a shark” and starts making chomping noises against her neck without warning.

Quinn’s laughter scares the shit out of Lord Tubbington, who wakes up from a well-timed nap on the couch just to stare and hiss at them both disapprovingly.

“That cat’s not normal,” Quinn says, gasping in laughter, and then squealing when Brittany bites down on her shoulder.

“Don’t be mean to my soulmate,” Brittany mumbles, and then lifts her head.  “And anyway; you’re not normal, and I’m not normal, so maybe not normal is just a better way of saying  _awesome_.”

Sometimes, Quinn thinks that the entire world is backwards, and Brittany is smarter than everyone on the honor roll put together.

*

They destroy at Sectionals, and Burt Hummel tapes the performance for everyone to watch back home.

When Quinn sees herself being spun out by Brittany and pulled back in, looking for all the world like a graceless sack of potatoes dancing next to an _angel_ , she knows it’s the happiest she’s ever, ever looked in her life.

“You  _sure_  you’re not gay?” Burt asks, carefully.  “Because someone might want to tell that blonde girl who can’t keep her eyes off you.”

Kurt chuckles and Quinn rolls her eyes at both of them.  

Then, she looks at herself on the television again; laughing and linking arms with Kurt and Britt before bowing down to the audience, and then hugging the entire rest of the team without giving a damn if it’s  _acceptable_  for girls to be this exuberant in public, or if her hair is perfect and her dress is the right length, or if maybe it’s a bit risky to kiss her girlfriend in front of a crowd full of people in the middle of Ohio.

That girl right there—

She’s not really Lucy anymore, and she’s not really Quinn Fabray either.

That’s just Quinn, and maybe that’s exactly who she’s meant to be.

  




End file.
